


And A Calm Heart Will Break

by wherethewhiled



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethewhiled/pseuds/wherethewhiled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, even people who are meant to be don’t get to be together.  And sometimes, for no good reason other than life is unfair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And A Calm Heart Will Break

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while back on tumblr, mid-season 2. I just really didn't like the way the show was telling the bio dad story, and it made me think about how likely Regina and Emma would be paired off with other people, and it felt like a waste to me. Except, for maybe how the characters would manage those family dynamics, and so that was kind of what I wanted to explore here. Their canon relationship still feels like a lot of missed opportunities, and missed opportunities is exactly what moved me to write here.

 

_The cold heart will burst_   
_If mistrusted first_   
_And a calm heart will break_   
_When given a shake_

Feist

 

-

 

_Friday 3:50 pm_

 

The school yard is littered with flimsy, yellow leaves, and closing her eyes, Regina breathes in the musk of autumn, and change, and time moving forward without her permission. She holds it until she can’t, and exhales. The warmed over oxygen rushes from her as a soft wind rustles everything out of its place, leaves skittering across uncut grass, and uneven pavement.

As another several seconds pass, Regina reminds herself to let them, to enjoy them as they are.

“Hey, Regina.”

She squints through the sudden flood of sunlight in her eyes.

“How are you?” Emma settles in next to her on the sidewalk like an inconvenient ghost, casually scuffing the soles of her boots to get comfortable.

Years ago, she could sense the blonde a mile in any direction – through diner walls, around the bends of empty hallways, from one end of a road to the other, even when disappearing into clusters of cedars, and maples, and pines. These days, they are out of sync and awkward.

“I’m fine, thank you, Emma.” She slips her hands in her pockets and glimpses down her side of the road, to buy herself some distance. They typically give one another a wide berth on pick up days, and while she isn’t unhappy to see Emma, she isn’t exactly prepared.

“Henry left his bat. He mentioned he was going to the field to practice this weekend? Figured I should bring it.”

“Yes,” and Regina has to lean aside to see more than just some hair and a pretty nose. “He somehow persuaded Jefferson to take him.”

Chuckling, Emma hands her the heavy length of wood, and when their fingers touch, Regina supposes she ought to regret marching so resolutely back up her front steps that morning for her gloves. She smiles though (polite as always, and only ever just polite) and lingers a little too long on Emma, her red cheeks, and her cheerful grin.

“You don’t mind if I stick around, and just say hi to the kid, right?”

They stand for the next several minutes in silence rather than making use of their time alone to talk. Clouds move idly above them, and Regina watches with the kind of melancholy she knows only Emma would be willing to try and understand. She misses having someone who really tries with her.

Her stomach rolls with old, familiar feelings, and it’s a wonder they still exist with all the people between them now.

“Why haven’t you had more kids?” She hangs tighter to the slender portion of the bat, because if Emma is ever pregnant again (and that fear is with her always) Regina isn’t really all that confident she could bear it.

It would mean the loss of whatever daydreaming she has left, folded in the quiet moments.

“I love Henry.”

The school bell rings, and Regina glances over for one more look before the doors burst and they are swept off in a sea of buoyant, young bodies. “But you have to share him with me.”

Bouncing on her heels, Emma shrugs before hunching her shoulders permanently against the cold. The brown leather at the inside of her elbow wrinkles as she crosses her arms.

Teenagers are beginning to trickle out of the building, yelling nonsense, roughhousing, laughing as they trample loudly across the yard. Eventually Henry comes into view, swinging an arm over his head in greeting. The two women gesture back, and nodding his head, Henry stops to motion for Grace through a crowd of their friends.

“Why haven’t you?”

Her heart catches, like the sleeve of a sweater on a shrub.

“I can’t have any of my own, Emma.”

Releasing her arm to her side, Regina accidentally knocks their knuckles together. She decides to count it as a win ( _two_ if she counts the one from earlier), however small and insignificant.

 

-

 

_Saturday 9:36 am_

 

It still surprises her how lively the house gets when the four of them are here together, all in one room. Cups, and plates, and bowls clatter gently as they are lain out and lined up accordingly – Henry likes his pancakes on a big plate, and bacon and eggs on another; Grace would rather less of everything, and a bowl for oatmeal; Jefferson likes having both a coffee and an orange juice. The pan sizzles, and Regina pokes at the bacon.

“I got the toast.”

“’Kay, I’m going to go pop in Wolverine and the X-men.”

“Put in Fate of the Future though!”

“Honestly, are we ever watching anything other than cartoon superheroes?” Jefferson crosses the kitchen, and rests a hand in the dip of her back while the other reaches out to steal a particularly crisp looking piece, glistening with grease and salt.

“No,” Regina scolds, and whacks his hand with the spatula. He smacks her ass. “It will always be superheroes, dear. And don’t try convincing them otherwise.”

She didn’t sleep well last night, and leans into his broad shoulder for a minute, giving him her weight. He gladly looms around her, and whispers something dirty in her ear. The cotton of his white t-shirt is worn in and warm.

“Daddy, Regina. Are you ready?” Balancing a tray, Grace attempts to hold in a knowing smirk for interrupting. Her bright eyes however can’t possibly hide how happy she is to see them like that.

“Yes, you go on ahead, dear.” Regina nudges Jefferson back a step, and gives him a reproachful eyebrow raise, though the twinkle in her is a lot more naughty than disapproving. “Your father and I will be right behind.”

Pointing a bulky finger, Jefferson mouths the word _‘tonight’_ at her before sauntering away with a tray of his own.

They still have their separate bedrooms, even if lately, more often than not, the two of them have been sleeping and waking up under the same covers. The kids are noticing, especially Grace. It was the kids that brought them then kept them together, but it was Grace alone who made them a family, believing in compassion and the possibilities it can afford to start again.

Regina wouldn’t ever dare claim her as a daughter, though she would do anything for that girl now. And does for the four days she has to give over Henry every week.

Their giggling filters through the corridors, sweeping easily along the walls, and embedding in the structures of the house. “Mom, are you coming?!” Untying the apron with her left hand, Regina grins as she places the pan in the sink. When the skin of her forearm inadvertently makes contact with the cold metal however, her lips hastily close over a memory of swiveling around and kissing someone, standing as she is in that very spot.

It happens sporadically, vivid reminisces of Emma.

She’s mostly used to it by now, except this one has come on so suddenly, it has her fingers tingling at the imaginary blonde curls bunching in between them. As always, all she can do is wait for it to pass. Regina tries to hurry it up, hearing the dramatic theme music playing over the main menu repeat itself.

“No, we have to wait. Grab his arm!”

“Regina, you better get in here!”

“Daddy –” a body part thuds against the coffee table, and the three of them are laughing uncontrollably. “Henry forgot the syrup!”

The memory lags.

Refusing to spoil their morning together, Regina moves to turn off the hood fan and fetch the syrup anyway, leaving the printed fabric unfolded on the counter as she walks out to squish in between the kids in front of the couch.

 

-

 

_Sunday 2:24 pm_

 

Her thighs are getting sore. Sitting on the uppermost platform, the ends of the wooden slats are beginning to dig through the fine material of her pants. But when her son bumps her shoulder, scrunching his eyes, beaming in that boyish way he still has, Regina figures she couldn’t care less if she came out this with splinters in all the wrong places.

Henry sucks some ice cream from his bottom lip, and she smirks at how he will always be her little saviour. Here, at his childhood castle, far from the quaint streets and old buildings, and with the sway of the shore behind them, it almost feels like it’s just the two of them again. She licks her own cone, and bites down on a chocolate chunk.

“Mom?”

“Yes, dear,” she replies while keeping an eye over their now peaceful, reconstructed town.

“How come you and Emma never got together?”

Knitting her brows, Regina struggles through the dull, paralyzing shock.

She’s long suspected he might know something – he has dropped enough hints over the years – but hearing it out loud is like a bomb exploding in her ears. Her skin trembles with all the words on the subject she has ever hidden inside herself. Unfortunately there isn’t really an answer, nothing specific or satisfying she can offer.

“You look at Emma like you love her, you know that right?”

Regina lowers the cone to her lap, and gulps as gracefully as she can. She knows what she feels, but she hadn’t known she was so obvious –

She wonders if Emma knows as well, if she sees it as plainly as their fifteen-year-old does, because if so, Regina couldn’t be more mortified.

Hesitantly, she forces herself to face her son. From underneath that mop of unruly hair, Henry gazes at her with the kind of hopeful courage she very much wishes she could borrow from time to time. He still trusts that life can work itself out.

She promised never to lie to him, so instead, she avoids the issue. “You still call her Emma?”

Henry shrugs, kicking his feet. “Sometimes I call her Ma.” A couple of seagulls fly overhead, squawking as he watches his mother with concern.

Regina turns and tips her head back a bit.

The thought of missing half her son and half their happy ending (at least the one she once believed in) stirs a deep well of emotion inside of her. “And what do you call …”

A large wave rushes in and takes the rest of the sentence out to drown in the slapping waters.

“I call him Neal.” He wraps a hand around hers, resolute and patient, and takes another bite out of his butterscotch ripple. “Thanks for rebuilding my castle, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Her voice breaks, but the waves are thankfully back again to fill the spaces.

 

-

 

_Monday 12:05 pm_

 

“Do you still drink cocoa, Sheriff?”

Emma puts down her paper, and sighs happily from her window seat. “From you I do.”

The sun gleams off her messy, blonde ponytail, and Regina purses her lips at how relaxed and easygoing Emma seems to have become. Sliding the mug across, Regina pulls back a chair and sits down neatly with a black coffee.

“What’re you doing here?” Emma sips through the whipped cream and widens her eyes comically, before murmuring in pleasure, “you remembered the cinnamon.”

Regina drops her gaze to the speckled tabletop. “I’m having lunch.”

She wants to smile but she shouldn’t.

Henry’s words swim dizzying circles round her brain, and so instead she grasps at them as best she can. Things have settled too much to start jeopardizing it all for a possibility one night, two years ago, could become something more. It was only one night.

Emma swipes a finger over her mouth, licking off the cream. “How are things at the stables? Busy?”

Regina tells her heart to shut up.

“No, not particularly.”

“Have you taken the kids out? I wouldn’t mind tagging along if you ever do.”

At that, Regina glances all the way up, and without her actually meaning them to, their eyes seamlessly fall in line and click in place (as if they were always meant to fit together like that), and suddenly her Monday afternoon isn’t just another hour, in a day, in a week, in a month.

“See you ride.” Emma isn’t pulling apart, and Regina doesn’t know how to.

“You would be interested,” she says, trying to keep the chit-chat going, but her mouth is dry.

“I’m always interested … in things …” Emma’s voice gets soft and quiet, as if they were telling secrets, and the room shrinks like plastic wrap, and their lousy excuse for a conversation finally dies as a moment passes between them – one that no longer has anything to do with plans, or schedules, or other unimportant small talk.

Ruby laughs in the background and the cash register dings. The clink of utensils stabbing and cutting and scraping echoes around them. The front door rattles.

“Did you order?” Jefferson plops down next to Regina, startling her, and drapes an arm along the back of her chair. Blinking, and readjusting her focus on the his rough, nonchalant features, the sleepy eyes and crooked smile, Regina presses her lips back together and shakes her head, a terrifying beat hammering in her chest.

He kisses her soundly.

“Jefferson,” she chides.

“Right, forgot to ask permission first,” he mocks and kisses her again. Flustered, Regina clears her throat, and smiles at Emma (politely) before hiding in her coffee.

And while Emma and Jefferson chat ineptly around her for a few stilted minutes, Regina thinks about how it is they have come so far apart knowing so much of one another, so much they will never again share with anyone else. Not even their son. She stores those details with care, like how she stores Henry’s childhood in fastidiously labelled boxes up in the attic.

Sometimes she looks for them again in Emma. Perhaps it is in those moments she is most obvious.

“Well, I better get back to work.” The woman folds her paper, and stands to pull her coat on.

“Emma.” Hovering over, Emma spreads a hand on the table, and though the mug is hot, Regina keeps hers firmly around her coffee. “Henry has a test on Wednesday he needs to study for. Don’t let him tell you otherwise when you pick him up tomorrow.”

As she studies the wide angles of Emma’s grin, she tells herself _this is enough_ – the run ins, the spurts of conversation, the occasional ambiguous look – tells herself what really matters is they are in each other’s lives. Emma is happy evidently, and it’s not that Regina isn’t (in a way) it’s just that she has never known how to let go of things that _could have been_.

“Good to know.” From where she is, Emma hollers out to Ruby a quick goodbye. “Thanks Regina. For the cocoa,” she says simply then and makes her exit. The blinds on the diner door clatter noisily.

Smacking his lips, Jefferson caresses the side of his index finger up and down the slope of her neck for some attention. Regina hums, squeezing his thigh. She is grateful to have him (regardless of how she feels for Emma).

“So, let’s have lunch,” he declares, before leaning in, and brushing his mouth against an ear. “And after that, how about we take the rest of the day off.”

Regina needs to be held right now. “Why don’t we just skip lunch altogether, dear?”

“No, I’m hungry,” he pouts, slouching back in his chair.

 

-

 

_Tuesday 11:12 pm_

 

The hinges squeak as Emma prods at the door and flicks the bathroom light on to reveal Henry kneeling on the floor. He abruptly wipes over his mouth, and flushes the toilet.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Emma stoops over, her face wrinkling with worry. “Do you have the flu or something?”

He drops against the glass wall of the shower and slumps his shoulders.

“Henry,” she persists, touching his forehead. The skin is cold and clammy, but he looks more like he’s had a horrible nightmare more than anything. Giving him some space, Emma follows her gut on this one. “I saw your mom today, and she was saying you’ve been stressed lately. Is that what this is about?”

He chuckles softly. “How does Mom know all these things?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Emma snickers back sympathetically, before relaxing a bit and adjusting to sit more comfortably on the hard tile. “But you can’t hide anything from her. She’s seriously all-knowing.” They share a small wistful smirk at that, a trademark they both picked up from his other mother.

And that is all it takes for Emma to be hit with a sharp pang of missing the woman.

“Well,” she inhales a little painfully, “Regina didn’t say what you were stressed about.” He chews the inside of a cheek, and she waits, as laid-back and undemanding as she can manage.

“I’m going to fail tomorrow, Ma.” His voice is tiny again, though his body is large and lanky, curled between the toilet and the shower.

(So much time has flown by, and Emma’s just been letting it all go without a fight.)

“You don’t know that. You studied, right? All night.”

“No, I am. And I know because I don’t get it. I study, and I don’t get it.”

“Oh, kid.” She clasps her hands around his knees and tilts forward, remembering what she’s seen of how Regina relates to him, soothes him when he’s panicking. “Listen, you take that test tomorrow, and if you really do fail, we’ll make up for it after. There’s always time to make up for things if you really mean to – and your mom and me – we’ll always be here to help, no matter what.”

His eyes snap up. “Is that what you said to her?”

“What do you mean?” Emma jerks back at his forceful curiosity.

“Well, there was a night a couple years ago,” he presses. “I was supposed to be asleep, and you guys were talking in the kitchen, at the manor.”

Emma knows exactly what night he is referring to, and now she is panicking over why the hell he is asking. Her throat clenches, and she can barely swallow. A lot happened that evening, hissing and whispering by the sink, around the island, up against the pantry; some of it unpleasant, and most of it a secret they have so far kept from everyone.

“What’d you hear?”

“Nothing really. I hung back at the top of the stairs.” He stares straight at Emma but picks at his pyjama pants. “It’s just … after that, things kind of changed. And now I have two moms.”

She laughs uneasily at his choice of words.

“You really care about her, don’t you?”

His voice seems to vibrate the entire room, the sink, the pipes, the cabinets and all the odds and ends inside them. Combing her tangled hair around her ears, Emma promptly checks behind, anxious about the open door.

“Ma. She cares a lot about you too.”

 

-

 

_Wednesday 10:48 am_

 

The place is so well kept it actually makes Emma smile. Every time she drives by the stables, she worries, about what Regina is doing, how she is doing, all by herself out here, and with little to no help. Now, Emma thinks she really should’ve made a better effort to get over herself sooner, and stop in before this.

Quietly, she peeks through the stalls, one by one, until she finds Regina brushing down a horse in firm, measured strokes, the gentle light and the smell of fresh hay encircling her in a warm haze. The horse sways its head, snorting mildly.

“What’s wrong, hmm?” Following his cues Regina tilts her face up, looking so soft and exposed, Emma nearly does something stupid.

Instead, she stuffs her fingers into the front of her jeans. “You know, I still think of you as the Mayor,” she muses. Her voice is soft, but it feels right. “I do, all the time. But, seeing you here … This is right for you.”

There is a sweet, intimate familiarity to what she is saying.

But as she watches Regina frown over an ache of nostalgia, Emma is immediately sorry, recalling suddenly those few, short sentences the woman once used to sum up what might have been her simple life. The guilt of bringing up first loves doesn’t stop the jealousy that floods around her lungs, unfortunately.

“How can I help you, Sheriff?”

Wary of the big, brown eyes of the horse judging her and her clumsy attempts to reconnect, Emma is tentative as she steps inside the stall. “Actually, I came for you. I’m not here on official town business.”

“Did something happen with Henry?” Regina’s arms tense and she clutches to the brush so hard, Emma is honestly afraid she might break her hand.

“No, nothing like that,” she treads closer and splays her palms out in a pacifying gesture. She then pulls her lips into an easy grin hoping it might help ease Regina further. “But yeah, I did want to talk to you about him. How’d you know?”

“There isn’t much else between us but Henry,” Regina points out, rather plainly, and glances uncomfortably around the confined space they are in. Her shoulders are rounded over in a loose, knit sweater, and the flat boots she is wearing shift slightly on the straw.

Regina’s changed in many ways – they both have – and Emma isn’t so sure she likes it, at all. Maybe if they had changed alongside one another she would feel differently. But as it is, to see the woman so far from what Emma used to know _inside out_ is unexpected, and disconcerting to say the least.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” Her leather jacket squeaks as she straightens up. “We can be … friends or something.”

A harsh laugh empties out of Regina.

“You don’t want that?” Emma wanders nearer, dipping her head, trying to interpret the changes in her face, but of course of all things, Regina is still as closed off as she ever was.

“I don’t have friends, Emma. I wouldn’t know how.”

Emma is about a step, maybe two, from crossing into personal space, and frantically her brain second-guesses whether or not she in fact understood what Henry was suggesting late last night. “Well then maybe not friends. Maybe we can be what we used to be.”

“And what was that?”

Her chest rattles with regrets, and apologies left unsaid; for accepting the status quo, for choosing what was easier more than once. “Henry, he –”

– and of course the horse interrupts. He snorts, and whinnies for attention rather aggressively, nudging against Regina’s shoulder. (Emma wants to punch that horse.) Distracted, Regina pats him reassuringly for a long moment, before cautiously opening out once more. “What about Henry?”

Despite what she told the kid, Emma knows, there are in fact so many versions of a life that could transpire, except there are also only so many opportunities to make one outcome happen before another takes over, and no amount of backtracking can bring the other around again. There isn’t actually unlimited time to make up for poor decisions, rather only split-seconds.

Regina is gazing slightly up at her, like someone counting stars at the top of a hill. The dark line of her brow is serene and unguarded.

Blinking, Emma doesn’t have the courage, not today, to turn their world upside down again.

 

-

 

_Thursday 8:21 pm_

 

“But I bought Red Sox tickets!” Neal shuts the fridge indignantly, and pops the cap off a beer.

“And I told you _no_.” A drawer rolls open, and Emma efficiently replaces the spoons, the knives, the forks, making more noise than necessary. “Regina has him this weekend.”

“So what?” His large, calloused hand claps on the counter, and their argument forcefully shifts up another gear. “She can have him an extra weekend next month.”

“She gets him half of every week. That’s the arrangement.”

“Babe, who cares?!”

A thick tendon in her neck jumps. Emma isn’t having this conversation, not again, not when no one on her goddamn side ever sticks to the agreed upon schedule. The piling resentments of these last few years are beginning to suffocate. “She is his _mother_.”

“You’re his mom. And I’m his dad.”

“She raised him and was his only parent for ten years.” Emma flips up the dishwasher, and throws his cap in the garbage.

He grabs her by the elbow, spinning her towards him. “And whose fault is that?”

“Don’t,” she snarls, wrenching away but with nowhere to go, boxed into the small kitchen as she is.

“He’s over there right now! Why can’t I take him for a weekend trip?”

“Henry is over there studying with his – with, with Grace, okay?! She’s helping him.”

“How do you know it’s not a ploy, huh? Trying to take Henry from us?” He tips the narrow opening of the bottle at her and the beer inside slops against the glass. “Don’t forget, Em. That woman can’t be trusted. She’s lucky she even gets to see our son at all.”

Disgusted, and burning up with self-loathing, Emma stomps past him, yanks her jacket off the wobbly coat rack, and slams the door at the irony of it all. She strides briskly around the block several times, gulping at the cold, night air as it bites at her cheeks.

This isn’t what she signed them up for, not what their lives are supposed to be.

On impulse, Emma crosses the street, and practically jogs on a direct route for the manor.

When she gets there, she is slightly out of breath, standing by the hedges. The downstairs level is completely dark. Gazing up, Emma tallies two lights on to the right, and one light on to the left. As much as Emma wants to, barging in like some melodramatic made-for-tv movie isn’t going to work, so she is going to wait, she can do that, for Regina to close the drapes, and then she can wave her down, and she can fix things.

A heedless anticipation roars in her ears.

Ten minutes later, the lights dim to half.

She doesn’t have to jump to conclusions though, because she knows. She remembers.

Emma imagines she can hear them: the way Regina sighs, afraid to be loud, her breath catching, and rushing, the quiet thump of the mattress.

Then as her heart starts to yell, too loud to go on imagining properly, Emma switches to wondering: if he is kissing her the same, slowly, and around her bottom lip as he fucks her; if his hands know where to touch to make her clutch with both her arms, or squeeze her thighs; if Regina likes for him to have her in similar positions, if she still likes it on her side and from behind.

And as her whole body begins to tremble from the cold, Emma wonders, if maybe, for a second, as _she_ is trembling underneath him, _she_ might think of her in that same bedroom, loving her that one night ( _all night_ ).

The lights stay like that until well after the kids are asleep. When the window finally goes dark Emma finds she cannot move.

 

-

 

_Friday 6:19 pm_

 

Emma hears them before she sees the two of them from around the tall fence surrounding the front of Granny’s. He steps out on the sidewalk first, carrying a big, brown take-bag, while she follows close behind, a hand on his shoulder.

Regina is back in a tight skirt and black stockings, and Emma nearly chokes on the memories that gurgle up.

“Hey,” Emma calls out, trying to keep her walk casual. Muttering under his breath, Neal drags his heels, shoes scraping the sidewalk, and she elbows him in warning. He shoots her an ugly look.

“Hello,” Regina replies, and her expression is flat and neutral as her gaze flutters between them, and nowhere in particular, settling somewhere vaguely in the middle, somewhere vaguely in their direction.

Emma grimaces. Sure, they are in each other’s lives, but they really don’t have much of a relationship anymore; the miles of meandering distance separating them all at once painfully apparent, as they stand not three feet apart and like strangers again, all the roads they have travelled together seemingly gone and meaningless.

The harsh realization snips a major artery and her heart drops to her stomach.

Looking bored already, Jefferson attempts to expedite the encounter, “Henry’s inside, waiting in a booth. The kid’s hungry, stole some of our fries.”

Bristling, Emma throws a stricken look over at Regina, insanely bothered someone else is calling _their kid_ – well, kid – but she gets nothing in return. Emma had no idea he did that, or that Regina would even let him. He sniffs through the silence then, re-settling his shoulders, crinkling the take-out bag. “Wow,” she remarks tightly, narrowing her eyes, suddenly unsure what affront to focus on. “You managed to convince Regina not to cook for the night?”

“Grace is with her god-parents this weekend,” Regina explains, clasping her ten fingers together out in front of her open coat and creasing the familiar blouse underneath (the one Emma always wishes she would wear more often).

“And we have the place to ourselves,” Jefferson adds. “So why waste that time cooking. Better ordering take-out and having a quiet night in, am I right?” He pops his eyebrows up, and puts just enough suggestion in his voice to make Emma think he is definitely doing it on purpose.

Regina barely reacts.

“Yeah, sure. I forgot Grace did that once a month.”

The pleasantries run out, and Emma is starting to stare, but she doesn’t give a shit, because all she wants to do right now is grab Regina by the shoulders and shake as hard as she can, wake the woman up to her again.

“Well,” Neal breaks the awkward lull, “Emma can’t cook, so that’s why we’re here.”

“Neither can you.”

“Fair enough,” he says, and scratches at his stubble, pretending to be unaffected.

Openly, Regina shares a look with Jefferson, probably to comment on the nastiness, except Emma can’t seem to read even one of the unspoken words passing through the air, eyes speeding back and forth. Against her early assumptions, the two seem to work together (and that is so much worse than knowing that they have sex, a lot).

“Okay, well,” she huffs. “I guess I will see you when I drop Henry off tomorrow. After lunch, like usual.”

“You’re dropping him off?”

The slight shock and disapproval in Regina is hard to ignore, and Emma doesn’t know what to make of it apart from thinking _she isn’t welcome_. Regina’s got a family of her own now, and she’s moving on, _it’s too late_.

“It’s supposed to be windy out. Why make the kid walk if I can drive him.”

Regina nods and adjusts the shape of her mouth to an obliging smile. “See you tomorrow then.”

The two peel off in the opposite direction. Neal plods toward the diner. But Emma, in her grown-up clothes, and her real leather, real shearling jacket simply stands, glued to the spot. Maybe she is wrong and Regina is happy, or something.

A battered truck with a rattling exhaust pipe rumbles by. It kicks up a few errant leaves on the road before squeaking at the stop sign up ahead, tail lights glowing bright red in the dark.

“Hold my hand, it’s cold,” Jefferson whines.

“No, that’s what you get for not wearing gloves when I tell you to.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll put them on next time.” He flashes her a toothy grin and Regina sighs, but not unkindly, rolls her eyes and grabs his hand. They walk comfortably, keeping a lazy pace down the sidewalk. The truck makes a left turn in front of them. “You’re wearing gloves, why don’t you hold the bag?”

“No,” she retorts easily.

He swings their arms a little.

“Em, what’re you doing?” Neal’s gruff voice booms out into the gentle evening, the reverberations knocking and breaking around Emma as if she were only a weather-beaten rock jutting out along the coast. “I thought you were behind me.”

Emma is still standing where the fence splits, watching the pair as they all but whistle their way home.

“Nothing,” she answers.

Clicking his tongue, Neal props the diner door wide open and impatiently extends an arm, waggling his hand at her to get inside. She flexes her fingers and buries them instead in the fluffy lining of her jacket pockets.

“It’s cold,” Emma says as she trudges up the patio, and away from what would make her happiest, in the end.


End file.
